


To die a little with each breath

by kathiya_ramani



Series: Emergency Johnlock Cravings Treatment Unit [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, First Kiss, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Masturbation, Not an Adlock story, Oh, Pining Sherlock, Rope bondage is mentioned, Valentine's Day, Who am I kidding its angsty af, and the green shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 14:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17768921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathiya_ramani/pseuds/kathiya_ramani
Summary: John Watson invites Irene Adler to surprise Sherlock Holmes because Men are Idiots that's why.





	To die a little with each breath

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language and the mistakes are all mine. I love comments and kudos. Constructive criticism is welcome too.  
> I'm @loneoldwolf in tumblr

"How tedious! ", drawls Sherlock Holmes into the phone "paperwork can wait till tomorrow 'Gerard!! "  
The annoyed gruff voice of Greg Lestrade mutters something , but cutting him short with an unceremonious "bye bye", Sherlock disconnects the call, looking sideways at John's face which was brimming with mirth.  
"I know that you know that's not his name, Sherlock, you are just having him on"  
"I really don't see the necessity of allotting valuable space in my mind palace to store mundane drivel like the Christian names of random detective inspectors, John"  
"Yeah, I know. Instead, you have saved a long list of names to rankle him. You mad man" John chuckles.  
Suddenly, Sherlock finds himself blushing, because John makes it sound like an endearment. Here they are in the foyer, leaning against the wall, panting with exertion, still riding on the adrenaline high of the mystery, the chase, and the ultimate victory. It is almost like how things were 'before'. Before Mary's death, before John's wedding, before the fall. And Sherlock must know that it is an illusion. A nostalgic illusion of the pleasant camaraderie that they used to share. An illusion of what they could be. He must understand that he shouldn't be fooled by it, to hope against hope that John would see, would understand how he wants.  
Oh! How he wants.  
They go quite. Sherlock's blush deepens as he feels John's eyes lingering on his profile , and he turns his head in time to witness the blue flames licking John's irises.  
The flames of the fire with which he used to make Sherlock feel like he is stripped naked and burnt and consumed in whole.  
His heart stutters like a moth caught in those flames, and he swallows hard. John takes a step closer to Sherlock and Sherlock's breath hitches.  
'Kiss me, John, consume me, do.. !' Sherlock screams silently, and for one heady moment, it is as if John has heard his plea.  
And then John shutters down.  
Why would you show me a glimpse of heavens and then close the door upon me when I am at the threshold, my John?  
My own! And yet not mine to have and to hold .  
John checks the time on his phone. "Oh, if I hurry now, I might be able to make it on time", he mutters.  
"You aren't working today, are you? "  
"No, Sherlock, I.... I have a date" , he looks down at the floor, and then directs a searching look at Sherlock's face.  
"I know it's too soon after Mary and I.." he clears his throat and looks away.  
Sherlock decides against scowling and schools his facial muscles into a neutral expression. Because it hurts to see John hurting, to see him feeling guilty, to see him standing before him as if he is waiting for Sherlock's judgement. If he can find happiness with a woman, let him. Sherlock is content with having John and his daughter sharing his flat and an occasional adventure or two. Beggars can't be choosers, although the unfairness of the possibility of losing John all over again to someone because he doesn't have female genitalia to offer him sexual gratification is just so maddening.  
Sherlock nods, and John climbs the stairs to his room upstairs.  
I shall not sabotage his date.  
I shall not sabotage his date.  
I shall not....  
And that's when he figures out that there's a stranger in his bedroom. He sniffs and stares at the floor and rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. Then he inches cautiously towards the bedroom door and peeps inside.  
True to his deductions, the Woman is lying supine on his bed, in her battle dress save for a Carmine colored ,flimsy, laced knicker . Her blood red lips break into a smile upon seeing his flabbergasted face.  
How Tedious!  
To say her timing is atrocious is the understatement of the month!!  
He turns on his heels , closes the door and locks it. When John is climbing down the steps, he is sitting on his chair, staring at the newspaper as if it had threatened to lunge at him and bite his head off.  
John checks in his stride. "Sherlock, are you all right? "  
"Of course I am alright. Why wouldn't I be alright "  
If John has learned anything about Sherlock in the past couple of years, it is that when Sherlock uses that tone, he is the farthest from being alright. His face is drained of blood and his eyes are widened as if he has seen a ghost.  
It's scary.  
And that is when Irene Adler chooses to knock on the door. They both startle and look at the door in unison.  
"Sherlock, who's that? "  
" A cat"  
"A cat? "  
"Yes. A cat. I adopted one. For science. "  
"A Cat cat?? "  
" Felis domestica, John, a cat. Do keep up"  
And the minx meows loudly, Twice. John's eyebrows shoot up.  
"And that's a cat, you say"  
"Dont you have a date or something? It isn't very gentlemanly of you to keep a lady waiting, John"  
"And how gentlemanly is it of you to keep a lady locked in your bedroom for half an hour , Mr Holmes?? ""  
"is that-" John starts with an incredulous smile.  
"No" Sherlock spits out.  
"That's Irene Adler " John states the obvious, because he is an idiot. Sherlock chooses to ignore him and addresses Irene instead.  
"In which alternative reality are you considered to be a lady, if you continue to have a habit of breaking and entering into other people's bedrooms? "  
"Open the door,Mr. Holmes, and let your dirty secret out for the good doctor to see" Irene says with glee, continuing to wrap on the door like the pain in the arse that she is.  
Sherlock pointedly looks away. John has that smile on his face. The smile which is not actually a smile "Sherlock, open that door"  
Sherlock turns his head towards John to glower at him and reprimand him with the best of his jibes. And hell, that was a terrible mistake.  
He is wearing a shirt of the most beautiful hunter green that makes him look at least ten years younger and that brings out the cerulean blue and the expressive glimmer of his eyes. The effect is dreamy, and oh gods, Sherlock has to make a conscious effort to gather his not so inconsiderable self control to get his wits back. And yes, to pick his jaw from the floor with a humiliating ' click '.

 

Apparently, he has spent the day's quota of self control after all, because he is suddenly caught off guard by a bout of poisonous envy that uncoils inside him like a serpent. Some faceless stranger is going to have it all, look her fill at his John the whole evening, locking her eyes with those bluest of the blue eyes with their golden tinge, held by those arms, will kiss those thin, red, delicious lips and... And his mantra of not sabotaging John's date breaks into tiny motes of dust and vanishes into thin air just like that!  
" Oh dear, you are feeling self conscious today. Your date is at least seven years younger than you and is Athletic. Worse, she's on a DIET! Oh she has a raging daddy kink so don't worry John, you'll do, with all that grey hair and the ridiculous amount of product you have used to keep that swoop in place. "  
John's face falls and his smile turns into a grimace. And he sniffs.  
And Sherlock gets no satisfaction out of all the snide remarks. In fact, he feels exactly like the piece of worthless shit that he is.  
John clenches and opens his left fist as an awkward silence ensues. Even Irene seems to be holding her breath. 

" All right. Sherlock, open that bloody door"  
John does 'the voice'  
Sherlock pouts a little but springs into action because he doesn't have it in him to disobey when John uses his Captain Watson voice.  
His hand ,however, pauses on the door handle.  
"I will, if she puts something on and makes herself presentable in the company of decent British men"  
John's eyebrows hit his hairline.  
"Oooh! Posh boy, I'd love to hear you beg for mercy in that posh voice of yours you know. And while we are at it, the only garment I'd like to wear is your funny hat "  
Satisfied with the rustling sound of the Woman putting her clothes on, the detective opens the door, scowling all the time. 

The Woman steps out. Fortunately, she has thrown Sherlock's dressing gown over her battle dress, but it was clear to even a lesser observant man that it is not an act of modesty but a strategy to accentuate the fact that she was very much nude underneath. She immediately puts her hands on Sherlock's hips, insinuating her thigh between Sherlock's (uncomfortably close to his groin) and locks eyes with him. John is fairly sure that for a moment, the world around has dissipated for them and he was beginning to get rather overwhelmed by intense eyesex that follows suit, and decides to just leave them to themselves and make himself disappear(in fact, why hasn't he done that yet?) , when after the small aeon, suddenly Irene turns her head coyly in John's direction .  
"Oh! Here we meet again, what a pleasant surprise, Doctor Watson! ", her sultry voice purrs on his name.  
"Hello Miss Adler, " says John after clearing his throat , "glad to see you again too"  
Irene smiles, fastening her hold on Sherlock's hips.  
"You also look very well for a recent widower, Dr. Watson "  
"Irene", Sherlock warns angrily. Nobody gets to hurt John like that.  
"Oh, I thought it was the' let's be mean to Doctor Watson together' day", she says, now playing with the lapels of his shirt, not the least chastised.  
"You used to be considerably less dull than this, Miss Adler " he spits.  
Irene shrugs in lighthearted dismissal. "Oh! It's only his sexual frustration speaking, Dr. Watson. I'll take care of him. I know men like you, Mr. Holmes. I know what men like you 'like'"  
"There are no other men like me, Miss Adler, you are horrendously mistaken"  
"Oh please, Mr. Holmes. You belong to that category of twinks who need to be bound up, gagged, spanked and fucked to exhaustion till your attitude is dissolved. And he likes being ordered around too(this is addressed to John) . Preferably with a proper military voice. I could do with a little help from you, Dr. Watson. He'd be writhing and panting on the bed like a puppy in need of a good petting. But unfortunately, you have a date. "  
Irene doesn't need a purple wand to make the sparks fly around. She sees the two men imprisoned in each others' gazes, holding their breath and eyes as wide as the universe itself. It's beautiful, dangerous and almost lethal to watch: this silent discourse between two men who live in each other. A discourse akin to the blood blossoming in the shape of a rose, out of a stab wound, painful, inescapable, hopeless, deadly.  
Idiots.  
"As I told you, Dull" it was Sherlock who recovers first. If his aim for nonchalance falls flat, Irene doesn't remark on it. "What the hell are you doing here anyway? If you need to consult me, go and sit there like a proper client. "  
"Isn't that rude? You invited me, Mr. Holmes, for dinner"  
"Oh! Did I now? "  
"Uh..hem" John clears his throat loudly, "I'll be off then"  
"Yeah, good luck Dr. Watson. Don't worry, as Sherlock said, you'll do fine. You are nothing short of a kinky girl's wet dream. I almost wish I wasn't gay so I could lick you"  
John looks confused, flustered, ruffled, a bit aroused and utterly endearing Sherlock knows his heart is going to break in three, two, one  
Zero  
"Sherlock, " John says.  
What else could he say as his parting wish. "have a good fuck", "happy getting laid", "get spanked nice and thorough"? He swallows hard, trying his soldierly best to ignore the smug smirk on The Woman's face who looks like the cat who's got the cream, and just....nods in farewell.  
And he's gone.  
Sherlock inclines his head towards Irene and his eyes narrow. He is grateful for Irene for the distraction.  
"So, I invited you to dinner? "  
" I believed so, till I saw that John was not surprised in the least to see me in your flat"  
"I noticed."  
"What martyrdom! " Irene sighs.  
"How convenient ", Sherlock remarks acidly. John didn't have to think of tricks, subject him to this mockery to keep him at bay from his date. For goodness's sake didn't he let him go and marry a woman and killed a man so he could stay basked in that domestic bliss?  
Irene steps away from him and looks up at his face. "Oh, Sherlock! "she whispers.  
"Oh! Shut up"  
Irene is a genius in her own right, and knows when to shut her mouth. The man loathe to be pitied, prides in his strength and really needs to let his hair down, so to speak.  
"I'm hungry", she says instead. "We both have been starving for too long"  
" 'Mrs.' Adler. Is it Kate? "  
" The way you do that still turns me on. "  
"Nicaragua. Whatever have you been doing there, risking your life? "  
"Oh, I have a knight , and he has my back"  
As if on cue, Sherlock slides his palm through the dressing gown to Irene's back, and down, and his fingers slide inside the inseam of her laced undies. Irene chuckles when Sherlock extracts a tiny syringe from there.  
He smirks. " Marriage seems to have made you boring, Irene, you thought you could pull the same prank on me twice? ", he asks, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.  
"Oh I would never imagine to prank you. You saved my life. You love me!"  
"Doesn't mean I trust you", Sherlock says, flicking the syringe away. It rolls under the sofa.  
"Shall we move to the bedroom? "  
" There's better light outside "  
"Oh, you want to see me better and hear me better like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood? Would you eat me better too? I'd like to be your dinner"  
They hear the door open and close downstairs. Of course he had to be standing in the foyer, eavesdropping, listening to The Woman's innuendo filled blabbering. Sherlock flinches as if with physical pain.  
Silently and smoothly, in the way only a woman is capable of doing, Irene leads him to the bed. Sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, they sigh in unison.  
"He never learns, does he? "Irene asks.  
Sherlock looks down at his own feet, not bothering to answer.  
" I have Wine. Thought it would go with the dinner. But since I couldn't find wine glasses, or any glasses that doesn't look outright poisonous, I brought these ", she says, waving her hand in the direction of the bottle of Wine and the two mismatched mugs on the nightstand.  
"That's very thoughtful of you"  
Sherlock's face softens with a smile.  
A bottle later, companionable silence find them lying on the bed, Sherlock's head on Irene's lap while she cards her fingers gently through his soft curls. It was lovely to be held that way. To have a warm body next to him, to be listening to the steady rhythm of a beating heart, to be adored, loved. Unbeknownst to him, a soft moan escapes Sherlock in response to the soothing glide of Irene's fingers.  
Irene smiles. "You do like to be petted, don't you. "  
" Shut up, Irene", he replies without heat.  
"You are beautiful ", she says, "you have always been a gorgeous boy. But the years have made you more manly. The Woman in me wants to make love to each deep line around your mouth, each wrinkle around your eyes...."  
"What happened to the 'brainy is the new sexy?" Sherlock murmurs sleepily.  
"Brainy, brave and beautiful! God, Sherlock, there's nothing about you that doesn't make me wet" Irene smiles. "Just say that you want me to make love to you"  
"You are married and your wife is expecting. Isn't it cheating to make love to me? "  
"Not in my line of work"  
Sherlock pouts. "And here I thought you loved me but I'm only 'work ' to you ", he jests lightheartedly.  
Irene is silent for a couple of long moments so he cranes his neck to look at her face, and is taken aback by the two large tear drops that are glistening in her eyes.  
"Sherlock, you saved me, you infiltrated the bloody Taliban, risked your life without a moment's hesitation for me and I.. I have never felt.. So.. God, how do I say this? You just showed me that you could die for me and how can I not love you? I might sound cheesy but this is the most honest thing I have ever said in my life" She takes a deep breath, and releases it slowly, her eyes boring into Sherlock's. "I love you, Sherlock, to the end of the world and back! "  
Suddenly, Sherlock is wide awake, his heart beating in double time. Because this is the first time, in his whole unworthy existence , that he has heard someone tell him that he is loved. And valued. And that his sacrifices are recognized.  
Oh, how he wishes he could love her back!  
But she is not the person from whom that he wants... he needs to hear that utterance being made.  
His heart is so full of him, and his soul survives by the scraps he leaves behind, that he has nothing to spare for any one else.  
"I don't think I could reciprocate the feeling, Irene. I'm truly sorry. "  
" I know. I have always known it.. . But then again, he never understands. He continues to treat you like you are a bloody doormat. Can't he see how he hurts you? "  
"I have hurt him. I have failed him. It's not his fault. And he's not gay. "  
"And here you are, determined to live a life of pain and unfulfilled hopes. I know what it is to fall in love with someone you can never have, Sherlock. You die with every breath you take. You are my personal poison, as is John Watson yours"  
Personal poison.  
He regards the phrase with a hazy, drowsy mind. Why is he this drowsy? He was pretty much awake a minute ago.  
Personal poison.  
Poison  
Oh, shit!  
He tries to get up, but Irene pins him down by his shoulders.  
"You poisoned me? "he slurrs.  
"Oh don't be a drama queen, I'm not naive. It's just a sedative as usual "  
" How? "  
"The wine, Sherlock, " she whispers near his ear, and presses a kiss to an ear lobe, watching him pass out. "know when you are beaten! "  
*******  
Sherlock wakes up groggily. He doesn't know how much time has passed . The Woman has disappeared. He listened intently. There's none else in the flat. His hands are handcuffed to the headboard and his body is crisscrossed with a complicated pattern of Shibari knots. He can move his legs; thanks for the small mercies. Save for the red silk rope running over his body, he is naked, and very much exposed.  
Sherlock is furious. Pins and needles erupt in his numb hands when he tries to tug the handcuffs down. So much for the genius who tugs at a pair of handcuffs to extricate his hands from them!  
If only he had a pin, a hair clip, something.... and time. He needs time. If John's date has gone well, he'd have time till tomorrow morning. But if John happens to return now and finds him like this!  
Tied up and bound and utterly at his mercy.  
Him, writhing and panting on the bed.  
The red silk rope in sharp contrast with the pallor of his skin, placed strategically so as to mark his pectorals, his biceps, his concave belly, his groin and his prick...  
Oh god, no! There's no way this is happening!! His heretofore flaccid prick seems to be getting interested and stirring at the prospect of John finding him like this.  
He wills it to go down. But his mind palace, in its full glory, provides various scenarios in vivid details and he can't seem to close the flood gates. ,  
John, untying him. John, running his blunt, rough and perfect fingers along the ropes and stroking his cock, and him, begging for more...  
More, John, more!!  
His sweat slick body glistens and quivers. And he thrashes around, wishing for release.  
John!  
More.. 

John climbs the seventeen steps to the flat carefully, avoiding the creaky step, so as not to disturb it's inhabitants. His limp has returned .  
He sees that Sherlock's bedroom door is still closed. He hears the bed creaking. He hears Sherlock grunting. And he hears a pained moan. He has got to flee.  
He considers running down the stairs and fleeing the flat into the cold, rainy night and just walk wherever his legs carried him, as he has done the whole evening. But a perverted, possessive, masochistic part of him wants to listen. Wants to wallow in the dejected feeling of loss.  
Sherlock hears John's footsteps and dead silence falls. He prays to a god ,in whom he has never had much faith in, for him to not open the door.  
A sigh of relief escapes him when he hears the door open and close in John's room.  
John's limp has returned. Why has his limp returned?  
Why didn't he call out for John. Why didn't he ask for more?  
He grunts and moans, his cock crying profusely for friction, for relief, standing erect and glorious like a May-pole and in the heat of the moment, he wanted John to see.  
He let's his head fall back, veins bulging in his neck, and tugging at the handcuff mercilessly so as to draw blood, moans long and loud with the abandon of the hopelessness. 

John stands as if struck by thunder. His heart is torn in two and his leg aches, but his groin comes alive with the noises Sherlock is making downstairs.  
Delicious, lewd noises in that baritone voice. 

"Oh god, what a pathetic loser am I" John thinks to himself, as he takes himself in his hand, and furiously wanks himself off, his forehead pressed to the door. Hot, thick liquid fills his palm in no time, and a muffled sob wracks his body.  
It was this sob that dooms Sherlock. His thighs tremble and his balls tighten. His eyes widen and he vision fills with white sparks as he comes untouched, a thin rope of milky semen flowing out from his prick-head.  
John switches on the bedside lamp. There's a Valentine's Card on the nightstand. Who the hell would send him a Valentine's Card?  
Scrolled in elegant, feminine letters was a Valentine's message.  
"Please release the poor boy.  
W"  
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? He picks up the card. Underneath it, tied in a small red ribbon, was the key of the handcuffs.  
He runs downstairs, his limp forgotten, and knocks on Sherlock's door.  
"Sherlock, are you all right "  
" Yes, just go away" comes the reply a moment later. As cool and aloof as an arctic glazier.  
" Sherlock, are you-"  
"Just leave me the fuck alone, John Watson!!! " Sherlock screams back.  
Sherlock never utters profanity. Never.  
"All right, can you open the door for me"  
" Go away"  
"All right, I'm coming in" luckily, the door was not locked.  
"Just... No" Sherlock mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut. He hears John walking towards him. He smells rain, musk, sex and John, as he unlocks the cuffs.  
He doesn't smell any sign of a girl on his body. No date then. It was all a ruse to set him up with Irene.  
The moment his hands are free, he grabs a sheet and covers his humility.  
" Shall I? " John indicates the rope.  
"No, I can get out of them myself. Thank you John. "  
John knows when he is dismissed.  
********  
Sherlock washes away every trace of sweat and semen from his body in scalding water but the rope marks wouldn't go away. They sting a little.  
Pacing in his room like a caged animal till three in the morning, he decides to torture the violin. Because anything else that his mind conjures up right now would be too evil to be legal.  
He feels drained. He feels dark and hollow. There's a nagging sense of finality that he cannot decipher.  
A dark bundle is huddled near the fireplace where the embers are dying. John has been drinking.  
Sherlock silently picks up his violin.  
" Sherlock "  
He stops, bow raised in the air.  
John walks towards him in unsteady strides.  
" So, how was it? How was sex with Irene Adler?"  
Apparently the whiskey has made his tongue loose.  
"Pray, tell me John, what right do you think you have to ask me that? "  
"No right. No right at all. " John turns around.  
"But, for the record, Sherlock, I fucking died today." He looks down, and growls. Turning back towards Sherlock he tries to find his eyes in the dark. " Died with every breath I took, knowing that I lost you. It's strange, isn't it. You've got to loose someone to know that you had had him in the first place"  
Sherlock forgets to breathe.  
"John", he finally manages in an exhale.  
"You were mine, Sherlock, all alone, and I-FUCK! It's the liquor talking. Oh god, god I'm sorry Sherlock! "  
"Is it? "  
"Hmm? "  
"Is it the liquor talking, John? "  
John looks at him then. A beam of street light seeping through the half opened curtain spills over his face. In the dim light he looks fragile and vulnerable . His lower lip quiver and through the shadows of his eyelashes , his eyes are glassy. So fucking gorgeous.  
"No, Sherlock "  
"How could you ever imagine that I would ever let anyone else-"  
John covers the distance between them with one stride, and places his palms on either side of Sherlock's face. His thumbs caress those cheekbones like he wanted to do for an eternity. A shiver runs through Sherlock's body as he leans forward. Their lips collide violently, and then they open a little, panting into each others mouths. " John! " Sherlock whispers "No, wait, I've got this"  
He draws back, and Sherlock groans in protest. Then he licks his lips, moistening them. He's more collected and surer of himself the next time he moves towards Sherlock, and this time he takes the lead, licking the seam of Sherlock's full lips, coaxing them open. Then his tongue slides inside, possessive strokes searching and probing inside. Sherlock is weak in his knees and quivering all over, so he leans against the wall, taking John along with him. John follows suit, pinning him to the wall with his whole body, and Sherlock moans. Because John tastes like whiskey, like desperation, like danger, like John, and it's heady. His own poison, and he is dizzy with it.  
John draws back, and Sherlock lunges forwards this time, with a drawn out whine of "Johnnnn". And John kisses his cheekbones, his jawline, his neck..he sucks at Sherlock's pulse point, "Mine... My own, aren't you Sherlock? Aren't you, love? "  
Panting and wrecked, Sherlock searches for John's eyes then. "John, tell me you mean it. Because if.., "John has started kissing his mouth again and he momentarily loses track of what he was saying. He holds on to the violin and it's now as if they were life lines, and John finally releases him to drg his lips down his neck to kiss where his neck meets his shoulder. "John!"  
"Tell me, "John says to his shoulder, his breath warm.  
"if you change your mind in the morning and think this whole thing is a mistake I shudder to think what would happen to me because I can't go back John "  
John looks into his eyes then.  
"No, Sherlock. I have been waiting for too long for this. "  
"Take me to bed, John? "  
"Oh, god, yes"  
And Sherlock's phone alerts a text with an orgasmic moan.  
John growls.  
"Her timing leaves much to desire, I know" Sherlock mutters while he opens the text.  
"Happy Valentine's Day.  
W"  
Sherlock chuckles, and does not answer.


End file.
